The-Joker
October 18th, 2006, 07:41 PM
Do You Feel That?
Ahhh ****...
The now all-too-familiar sounds of suffering and war fill the air of the National Guard Armory. But instead of Warrior, the opening riffs of Down With The Sickness by Disturbed are all but drowned out by the boos of the 2100+ wrestling fans who paid to see hot, wet, PWW action. The fans get exactly what they paid for, love him or hate him. Well. Just hate him, because Roderick Brookes makes his presence known, a cocky smile on his face and a cigarette in his mouth as he struts out from backstage, a bottle of Tres Haches beer. He looks even more serious than usual and when a fan wearing a shirt that says "HCW BLAZE" taunts him, he loses it, pulling the fan by the hair over the guard rail and setting him up for a quick One Shoulder Powerbomb onto the entranceway, leaving him sprawled in the walkway. Brookes continues his confident strut down to the ring, casually adjusting his red leather jacket before climbing into the ring. He takes a mic from his inside pocket. Jesus, does he keep that thing on him everywhere he goes just so he can piss people off at the train station?
Roderick Brookes: You all knew this day would come. Every loyal Pro Wrestling Warriors fan in this audience knew the day would come. Every fan who's ever heard my name, every man, woman, or child who saw me compete in this ring knew this day would come and knows exactly what is going to happen. F*cks sake, even all of my opponents tonight knew this was going to happen. I bet the dopes've already lined up new jobs.
The crowd continues in an uproar of boos. Brookes isn't making any friends tonight. One fan yells "BROOKES SUCKS D*CK!"
Brookes: Tonight is the night PWW-- F*ck'd you just say to me? You got it all wrong, ya gob****e. Your mum's the one who handles all the c*cksuckin' round here. She's in me lockerroom right now.
Fan: My mother died of cancer last year, YOU ASSH*LE!
Brookes: I thought she was dead in bed. Who do ya think gave it to her? She couldn't handle my medicine and had a bad reaction, I guess.
The fan looks pissed and tries to jump the guardrail, but security holds him back. Brookes just adjusts his jacket again and continues
Brookes: Ya see, life is a terminal sexually trasmitted illness. The life of this company began when that slut of a company Hybrid Champion**** Wrestling f*cked her "top stars" and gave birth to this inbred muck savage of a company. And now PWW is all grown up and mad at mommy and daddy. Well I'm gonna beat the sh*t out of the fathers to infect the son and laugh as the mother dies of loneliness.
The fans boo Brookes for his callous rhetoric and categorical douchebaggery. He takes a drag of his cigarette and continues.
Brookes:
Tonight, I'm gonna destroy every opponent they put in front of me and seal my domination in this company, singlehandedly destroying Pro Wrestling Warriors and everything it stands for when it becomes nothing but victim after victim being squashed, broken, and retired by God's blight on wrestling until it folds in half under the weight of my greatness. And for once, there will be a cure. A cure for the deadliest disease of all, life. This company will be cured of the foul sickness when I come out on top of this tournament. I have no competition. I never did.
The fans start throwing garbage and bottles into the ring, but Brookes simply dodges what he needs to and lets everything else harmlessly bounce off his large frame.
Brookes: Seth Frost will be the first to go. He thinks he knows war? I was raised in war. Ever hear of the IRA? Frost knows nothing an' understands less. He's just another HCW reject in over his head, hiding behind a tired "Ice Cold" gimmick. Listen up, Freezy McPops. You don't stand a chance tonight. Lay down and accept the fate that you got comin' to you.
The crowd boos this "cold" dismissal of Seth Frost. They apparantly feel that he's not worthless.
Brookes: And how can I forget that knob-slobberin' Adam Pugh. Oh, that's right. The same way everyone else has. Movin' on, we got Drake Vinaldi. The greaseball mobster who whacked his way to the top in more ways than one. I destroyed you once, Vinaldi, make no mistake about it. If it comes down to you and me, it'll happen again, and this time you won't live to bitch about it the next week.
The crowd gets really intense, booing and screaming at Brookes. It looks like a riot is about to break out as Brookes is about to continue. Before he gets the chance, two National Guard trained (read: fat) security guards. They apparantly insist that Brookes return to the back before someone gets hurt. Unfortunately, Brookes couldn't care less what the national guard or the fans think and quickly floors one of the guards with a European uppercut. He rolls out of the ring and the other pulls out a nightstick and swings for Brookes ribs, connecting with what appears to be a vicious blow as Brookes doubles over in apparant pain. The guard goes to floor Brookes once and for all with a strike to the head, but the nightstick comes to a sudden stop when Roderick catches it with one hand, looking up and laughing at the terrified guard. Before the guard can get away, Roderick pulls the nightstick from his hand and decks him with it, sending a few teeth flying into the audience as the guard rolls from the ring and flees, rather than calling for backup. Brookes takes a casual drag from his cigarette before finishing it, flicking it into the audience before continuing. The fans boo louder than ever, looking ready to storm the ring, but many seem too afraid to.
Brookes: As I was saying, Vinaldi might get the honor of fightin' me, but that's only if he can beat Blake Straker. Of course, if Straker wins, he wouldn't stand a goddam chance against me anyway. Look at him. Hard as it is to, that is. Straker , like Pugh and Frost is simply NOTHING compared to me. Maybe he'd be better in that f*ckin' circus HCW, but here he kneels before his god, weeping like the tragic f*ckin' clown he is. He may think he's crazy, but I'm f*ckin' insane. And given the chance I'll kill him and not think a goddamn minute before I do it. Don't forget it Straker. Do the right thing and don't show up if it comes down to us.
I don't know who the f*ck Matthew Voltaire is, honestly. Far as I can tell he's some confused wanna-be intellectual with a stick up his arse and date with death. I wouldn't put any bets on him beatin' Darius Falcon.
The crowd's reaction is mixed to the mention of the straight edger, and Brookes total opposite.
Brookes: Darius Falcon. Ah doesn't that name bring back memories. I've seen 'im wrestle, I've heard 'im preach. Feckin' straight edgers think they're cute with their sermons and their feckin' high an mighty attitude. Maybe I'm smokin' poison, maybe I'm drinkin' venom and shootin' up with toxins, but I'm still better than anything you could ever f*ckin' pray to be Falcon.
When I leave you lyin' in that ring, bloody and crippled, it'll be the beginnin' of the end. No cleanmade bullsh*t's gonna save you from what I got ready, so ya best go back to the organic food store and practice sittin' on cucumbers, 'cause you ain't gonna find any hope here. I hear HCW's hirin' people with that talent anyway, go back home, you f*ggot.
A couple of fans jump the railing and charge the ring, Brookes, still holding the nightstick hits the first in the gut and throws him out of the ring. He sidesteps the other, choking him out with the nightstick then dropping him with a sick STO, kicking him out of the ring before picking up the mic and straightening his jacket out again, grinning
Brookes:
Last, and probably least, you got this import car chuckin', engrish speakin', soulless jap, Kenzo Katana. I remember the first time I saw Katana wrestle, and I said to myself "Oh my god, it's Jackie Chan!". Then I realized it wasn't Jackie Chan. No, it wasn't Jackie Chan at all, it was another one of those cloned no-soul lookalike Jap import wrestlers like that prepubescent Sato Sakichi or any given piece of sh*t in HCW. Well, Katana, you can talk as scary as you wanna talk, mystical grandfatha' but when I've beaten a million of your Honda Civic drivin' brothers and I'll beat a thousand more after I destroy you in that ring. And after I finish you and every other good-for-nothing wouldbe main eventer in this muckhole, I'll kill this company once and for all, driving it six feet into the dirt where it belongs, buried like every one before it. Here it comes.... get ready to DIE.
With that, Brookes slams the mic in the ground and returns backstage as the fans throw more crap into the ring. He silent passes the EMTs who rush past him to attend to his victims, a smirk crossing his face when he breaks the curtains to go to his lockerroom.
Ahhh ****...
The now all-too-familiar sounds of suffering and war fill the air of the National Guard Armory. But instead of Warrior, the opening riffs of Down With The Sickness by Disturbed are all but drowned out by the boos of the 2100+ wrestling fans who paid to see hot, wet, PWW action. The fans get exactly what they paid for, love him or hate him. Well. Just hate him, because Roderick Brookes makes his presence known, a cocky smile on his face and a cigarette in his mouth as he struts out from backstage, a bottle of Tres Haches beer. He looks even more serious than usual and when a fan wearing a shirt that says "HCW BLAZE" taunts him, he loses it, pulling the fan by the hair over the guard rail and setting him up for a quick One Shoulder Powerbomb onto the entranceway, leaving him sprawled in the walkway. Brookes continues his confident strut down to the ring, casually adjusting his red leather jacket before climbing into the ring. He takes a mic from his inside pocket. Jesus, does he keep that thing on him everywhere he goes just so he can piss people off at the train station?
Roderick Brookes: You all knew this day would come. Every loyal Pro Wrestling Warriors fan in this audience knew the day would come. Every fan who's ever heard my name, every man, woman, or child who saw me compete in this ring knew this day would come and knows exactly what is going to happen. F*cks sake, even all of my opponents tonight knew this was going to happen. I bet the dopes've already lined up new jobs.
The crowd continues in an uproar of boos. Brookes isn't making any friends tonight. One fan yells "BROOKES SUCKS D*CK!"
Brookes: Tonight is the night PWW-- F*ck'd you just say to me? You got it all wrong, ya gob****e. Your mum's the one who handles all the c*cksuckin' round here. She's in me lockerroom right now.
Fan: My mother died of cancer last year, YOU ASSH*LE!
Brookes: I thought she was dead in bed. Who do ya think gave it to her? She couldn't handle my medicine and had a bad reaction, I guess.
The fan looks pissed and tries to jump the guardrail, but security holds him back. Brookes just adjusts his jacket again and continues
Brookes: Ya see, life is a terminal sexually trasmitted illness. The life of this company began when that slut of a company Hybrid Champion**** Wrestling f*cked her "top stars" and gave birth to this inbred muck savage of a company. And now PWW is all grown up and mad at mommy and daddy. Well I'm gonna beat the sh*t out of the fathers to infect the son and laugh as the mother dies of loneliness.
The fans boo Brookes for his callous rhetoric and categorical douchebaggery. He takes a drag of his cigarette and continues.
Brookes:
Tonight, I'm gonna destroy every opponent they put in front of me and seal my domination in this company, singlehandedly destroying Pro Wrestling Warriors and everything it stands for when it becomes nothing but victim after victim being squashed, broken, and retired by God's blight on wrestling until it folds in half under the weight of my greatness. And for once, there will be a cure. A cure for the deadliest disease of all, life. This company will be cured of the foul sickness when I come out on top of this tournament. I have no competition. I never did.
The fans start throwing garbage and bottles into the ring, but Brookes simply dodges what he needs to and lets everything else harmlessly bounce off his large frame.
Brookes: Seth Frost will be the first to go. He thinks he knows war? I was raised in war. Ever hear of the IRA? Frost knows nothing an' understands less. He's just another HCW reject in over his head, hiding behind a tired "Ice Cold" gimmick. Listen up, Freezy McPops. You don't stand a chance tonight. Lay down and accept the fate that you got comin' to you.
The crowd boos this "cold" dismissal of Seth Frost. They apparantly feel that he's not worthless.
Brookes: And how can I forget that knob-slobberin' Adam Pugh. Oh, that's right. The same way everyone else has. Movin' on, we got Drake Vinaldi. The greaseball mobster who whacked his way to the top in more ways than one. I destroyed you once, Vinaldi, make no mistake about it. If it comes down to you and me, it'll happen again, and this time you won't live to bitch about it the next week.
The crowd gets really intense, booing and screaming at Brookes. It looks like a riot is about to break out as Brookes is about to continue. Before he gets the chance, two National Guard trained (read: fat) security guards. They apparantly insist that Brookes return to the back before someone gets hurt. Unfortunately, Brookes couldn't care less what the national guard or the fans think and quickly floors one of the guards with a European uppercut. He rolls out of the ring and the other pulls out a nightstick and swings for Brookes ribs, connecting with what appears to be a vicious blow as Brookes doubles over in apparant pain. The guard goes to floor Brookes once and for all with a strike to the head, but the nightstick comes to a sudden stop when Roderick catches it with one hand, looking up and laughing at the terrified guard. Before the guard can get away, Roderick pulls the nightstick from his hand and decks him with it, sending a few teeth flying into the audience as the guard rolls from the ring and flees, rather than calling for backup. Brookes takes a casual drag from his cigarette before finishing it, flicking it into the audience before continuing. The fans boo louder than ever, looking ready to storm the ring, but many seem too afraid to.
Brookes: As I was saying, Vinaldi might get the honor of fightin' me, but that's only if he can beat Blake Straker. Of course, if Straker wins, he wouldn't stand a goddam chance against me anyway. Look at him. Hard as it is to, that is. Straker , like Pugh and Frost is simply NOTHING compared to me. Maybe he'd be better in that f*ckin' circus HCW, but here he kneels before his god, weeping like the tragic f*ckin' clown he is. He may think he's crazy, but I'm f*ckin' insane. And given the chance I'll kill him and not think a goddamn minute before I do it. Don't forget it Straker. Do the right thing and don't show up if it comes down to us.
I don't know who the f*ck Matthew Voltaire is, honestly. Far as I can tell he's some confused wanna-be intellectual with a stick up his arse and date with death. I wouldn't put any bets on him beatin' Darius Falcon.
The crowd's reaction is mixed to the mention of the straight edger, and Brookes total opposite.
Brookes: Darius Falcon. Ah doesn't that name bring back memories. I've seen 'im wrestle, I've heard 'im preach. Feckin' straight edgers think they're cute with their sermons and their feckin' high an mighty attitude. Maybe I'm smokin' poison, maybe I'm drinkin' venom and shootin' up with toxins, but I'm still better than anything you could ever f*ckin' pray to be Falcon.
When I leave you lyin' in that ring, bloody and crippled, it'll be the beginnin' of the end. No cleanmade bullsh*t's gonna save you from what I got ready, so ya best go back to the organic food store and practice sittin' on cucumbers, 'cause you ain't gonna find any hope here. I hear HCW's hirin' people with that talent anyway, go back home, you f*ggot.
A couple of fans jump the railing and charge the ring, Brookes, still holding the nightstick hits the first in the gut and throws him out of the ring. He sidesteps the other, choking him out with the nightstick then dropping him with a sick STO, kicking him out of the ring before picking up the mic and straightening his jacket out again, grinning
Brookes:
Last, and probably least, you got this import car chuckin', engrish speakin', soulless jap, Kenzo Katana. I remember the first time I saw Katana wrestle, and I said to myself "Oh my god, it's Jackie Chan!". Then I realized it wasn't Jackie Chan. No, it wasn't Jackie Chan at all, it was another one of those cloned no-soul lookalike Jap import wrestlers like that prepubescent Sato Sakichi or any given piece of sh*t in HCW. Well, Katana, you can talk as scary as you wanna talk, mystical grandfatha' but when I've beaten a million of your Honda Civic drivin' brothers and I'll beat a thousand more after I destroy you in that ring. And after I finish you and every other good-for-nothing wouldbe main eventer in this muckhole, I'll kill this company once and for all, driving it six feet into the dirt where it belongs, buried like every one before it. Here it comes.... get ready to DIE.
With that, Brookes slams the mic in the ground and returns backstage as the fans throw more crap into the ring. He silent passes the EMTs who rush past him to attend to his victims, a smirk crossing his face when he breaks the curtains to go to his lockerroom.